


Fuck Hell

by zeldadestry



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-26
Updated: 2011-03-26
Packaged: 2017-10-17 07:10:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Not like either one of us doesn’t have enough bad shit to remember without hell, anyway, right?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuck Hell

He doesn’t know what he’s dreaming, what jerks him awake. Was nothing good, he’s sure, because how often are his dreams ever soft or sweet?

Sam makes a noise, a whimper, could be pleasure or pain, but Dean in his half-awake state can’t take the risk, has to push up, out of his bed, stumble over to Sam’s, shake him on the shoulder, turn him over from his side to his back and poke at him until he cracks open his bleary eyes. “Hell,” Dean says, voice too loud in the dark. “You’re not - tell me that’s not what you’re dreaming about.” Sam shakes his head. Dean wants to believe him but doesn’t, and Sam must see that doubt because he stares back, without blinking, like he’s determined that Dean see everything, every flicker of thought or feeling. “Ok,” he says, not satisfied, not assured, but not panicked anymore, either. “Ok, that’s good.” Sam’s mouth twists, caught between smile and grimace, and when he pulls at Dean’s wrist, Dean follows the tug down, lies beside him and lays his right arm over Sam’s belly, rests his head on Sam’s own pillow. “Not like either one of us doesn’t have enough bad shit to remember without hell, anyway, right?”

Sam nods and Dean watches him. He stares up at the ceiling for a long time, until he finally catches on to the rhythm of Dean’s breath, slow, long exhales, and his body relaxes, he sinks deeper into the mattress beneath them, and his eyes close. Dean assumes they’re both going to drift back into sleep, shifts a little closer to Sam, settles in against his body, curves around his warmth, so he’s surprised when Sam says, “Jake.”

“What?”

“Jake. You remember. With the knife.”

Dean doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t even like to think about it, who but a masochist would? The pull’s there, to say, no, Sammy, don’t wanna go there, not gonna go there, just forget about it, ok? This is Sam’s bed, though, yeah, a rented bed, one neither of them will ever see again after tomorrow morning, but for tonight, this is Sam’s bed, and Dean can play by Sam’s rules, if it means he doesn’t have to leave. “Yeah,” he says, and his hand reaches out, clasps Sam’s forearm hard, nails digging in, both of them knowing what that grip means, won’t ever let you go, don’t care what I have to give up, don’t care don’t care don’t care, “I remember.”

“I dream sometimes,” Sam takes a deep breath and Dean’s own torso rises and falls with the wave, “that I’m back there and I kill him. I kill him first, before he can kill me. Because I had that, I had that chance, and I didn’t take it and if I had, shit, think about it. I mean, I know we both made choices, after that, I know it’s not like that was the one piece falling into place that set everything off, I know, but sometimes I just, when it’s too much and I need someone, I have to have someone to blame, someone else, you know, it’s him.”

“Blame for what?”

“Everything. I don’t know. You going to hell. The apocalypse. Me going to hell.” Sam turns his face in, rests his lips against Dean’s forehead. “You going to hell,” he murmurs.

Dean strokes his thumb back and forth across the soft inside of Sam’s wrist, over the ridge of tendons, over what he can’t feel but knows to be the blue streams of Sam’s veins. “The apocalypse is worse than me going to hell,” he says.

“Not to me.” Sam shifts down, rearranging their bodies, so that Dean rolls onto his back and Sam leans in over him, their mouths a few inches, much too far, apart. “But I think you know that.”

No, Dean doesn’t know, doesn’t necessarily believe it, not from Sam’s side, but he does know that when the situation’s reversed, if they’re talking about Sam being in hell, yeah, the words are true for himself. “Fuck hell,” he says. “Fuck hell, fuck the apocalypse, and fuck the mother of all, or whatever the fuck she calls herself.” He wraps his hand around the back of Sam’s neck and wrenches him down so there’s no space between them.


End file.
